Star Wars_ Planet of Twilight - Barbara Hambly [42]
That was the problem, reflected Han, with power.
Even before he’d come into contact with actual power, he’d concluded that people who wanted to rule the galaxy—or even some weedpatch township on Duroon—were idiots. As Lando Calrissian had discovered on Bespin, power tied you down. You could no longer follow your instincts or act on the spur of the moment.
All Leia could do, when Callista’s message had reached her, was include her Noghri bodyguard in the party and run the risk of the hideous scandal that would result if they were discovered. Every precaution that could be taken had already been taken.
She should have run. Han touched the keypad again, and watched the long parade of scramble 9s—there were fifteen of them now—scroll past.
The face of Luke’s beloved—the soft oval contours, the strong chin and full, decisive lips, the rain-colored eyes that were at once so old and so innocent—returned to his mind. The light, husky alto voice that was like a teenage boy’s and the gawky grace of her long-boned body.
She’d disappeared almost a year ago. She knew Luke would go after her, thought Han. She wouldn’t resurface lightly.
All that, Leia had known.
And had gotten on the Borealis shuttle anyway.
It was a kind of courage Han frankly wasn’t sure he possessed.
He said again, out loud this time, “She should have run.”
The screen blinked again. Another scramble 9. From Coruscant, this time, a long block of text, in the purple lettering that meant very, very urgent. At the same time a green light went up over the fancifully carved, moss-padded stone doorway that led from the terrace to the house, and in what looked like an antique stone niche a decorative statue revolved to admit a round TT-8L droid on the end of its jointed limb.
The bronze lid blinked as the blue glass optical adjusted to read who was on the terrace. Then a very pleasant voice announced, “Two visitors in the vestibule, Captain Solo. They have declined to present credentials. Would you like them to be admitted or would you prefer an observation first?”
“Admit ’em.” Han hated spying on his guests. If they came out the door shooting, he and Chewie could probably deal with the situation.
“It will be my pleasure.”
Chewie grumbled something and shook his mane. He disliked vestibule observation as much as Han did, and disliked tattletale droids, if possible, even more. Han laughed, and agreed, “Yeah, can’t you just see all his little diodes sparkling with sheer delight?”
The laughter wiped from his face a moment later as the automatic door slid quietly back into its quasi-stone slot, and he saw who his visitor was.
He had a bad feeling about all this.
“Well, well.” The door of the airlock slipped open. “What have we got here?”
See-Threepio, who had advanced with hands extended in near-ecstatic welcome, pulled up short at the question. “As I explained over the viewscreen,” he reiterated, “this is a scout vessel detached from a … a major disaster, and we are on our way to the fleet base at Cybloc XII.” As he spoke he was analyzing the broad-shouldered, fair-haired man with the scar on his lip who stood in the doorway, the man who, half an hour previously, had identified himself on the viewscreen as Captain Bortrek of the Pure Sabacc.
“Our pilot is unfortunately deceased …” He followed Captain Bortrek down the corridor to the bridge, the young man swaggering ahead, looking around him thoughtfully and whistling a little through his teeth.
“He the only crew?” Bortrek paused in the doorway of the tiny lab, where Yeoman Marcopius lay cramped into the stasis box.
“Of course. Had there been anyone else to navigate us into the Durren roads, we could have …”
“What’d he die of? Anything